


imagine standing in a constant cone of light (imagine surrender, imagine being useless)

by voxofthevoid



Series: the hero's shoulders [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon Temporary Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Injured Character, M/M, Nipple Play, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25261534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: After a mission that leaves Bucky covered head to toe in soot and grime, he slumps against a slightly charred tree and says, “You know what we’re gonna do, Steve?”Steve, bent over and panting, raises his own grime-coated face to look expectantly at Bucky.“We’re going to pull a Clint and get a fucking farm house in buttfuck nowhere and the most strenuous activity we’ll ever do is you fucking me through a bed.”On the comms, Natasha laughs, loud and startled. Sam starts singing some nonsense song loudly, his preferred tactic whenever Steve or Bucky—mostly Bucky—gets a little too explicit about what they do together. It’s just the four of them on this. Wanda is off doing something with Vision that she, unlike Bucky, doesn’t get very explicit about. Clint’s on one of his quality family retreats and Pietro is with him, more or less a Barton at this point.Bucky switches off his comm, but Steve doesn’t bother, apparently too busy staring adoringly at Bucky.“Yeah?” he says, soft, too soft for where they are, what they are. “Sounds real nice, Buck.”-All good things must end, but first, they exist.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: the hero's shoulders [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719319
Comments: 233
Kudos: 575





	imagine standing in a constant cone of light (imagine surrender, imagine being useless)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [imagine standing in a constant cone of light (imagine surrender, imagine being useless) voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580258) by [WTF Bucky Bottom 2021 (WTF_Bucky_Bottom_2021)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Bucky_Bottom_2021/pseuds/WTF%20Bucky%20Bottom%202021)



> Chapter title from Richard Siken's 'Seaside Imprvisation.'
> 
> And guys, Ko has outdid herself with the art for this one, and I can’t believe she’s real—you can find more of her stuff over on [tumblr!](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And mine's [here](https://voxofthevoid.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Note the tags!

* * *

* * *

  
Natasha spends the entire flight in the cockpit, fiddling with the controls even though she doesn’t have to when the Quinjet is on autopilot. Bucky says nothing, keeping to himself, huddled in his seat. He’s restless, nervous energy thrumming under his skin. He wants to hit something, wants a fight, a gun, or at least somewhere he can pace until his legs are trembling.

He curls further in on himself and closes his eyes, and that’s a mistake because he knows what he’ll see, what he’ll hear, but that is no less kind than shaking out of his skin like this, so he lets the memory wash over him.

“Steve’s down,” Natasha said, and Bucky can’t remember the look in her eyes or the shape of her lips, her features all a gentle blur, but every syllable she said is crystal clear in his head. “Ross found us. We escaped. But Steve took a bad hit.”

Bucky doesn’t remember what he did either, but he knows Natasha called his name, voice rising in sharp panic.

“He’s alive,” she kept saying, deceptively delicate hand bruising Bucky’s shoulder. “He’s alive, we got out, T’Challa took him in.”

There are maybe a handful of people left who can help Steve while keeping him safe from Ross and the Accords. Tony Stark is an option, but he and Steve haven’t been talking for the last two years, the stubborn fucks, and Bucky can’t blame Steve’s team for not taking that chance. They might still have had to, if T’Challa didn’t sweep in like a knight in feline armor. It’s a hell of a favor from the king of a country that only recently revealed its true nature to the public. If Bucky had the mental space for it, he’d worry what the catch is, but he finds that he can’t worry about much of anything, his head a broken litany of _Steve, Steve, Steve_.

“Do you trust him,” he asked Natasha, at some point between the hazy ride from his place to the Quinjet.

“No,” she said, “but he’ll take care of Steve.”

And that was a hell of a thing, coming from Natasha Romanoff.

It’s not enough to put Bucky at ease. Nothing will be until he sees Steve with his own two eyes and touches his big, dumb face and screams at him a little. And he keeps thinking—he should’ve been there, he _could_ have been, Steve asked him but Bucky said no, and he wasn’t there when Steve went down; it’s his own damn fault.

“That’s not very rational,” Wanda says, sitting down next to Bucky. He startles, looking wildly up at her. “I’m sorry. You were very loud. I couldn’t help overhearing.”

For a moment, Bucky thinks he’s been actually mumbling the entire panicked soup in his head, but then he realizes this is _Wanda_ , and she listens with a lot more than just ears.

“It’s fine,” he says after too long a pause.

It’s not really fine, and judging by Wanda’s stilted smile, she knows it too.

“I mean it,” she says anyway, smile gentling. “We were outnumbered one to thirty. Escape itself was a miracle.”

Her left arm’s in a sling. There’s a jagged, raw-looking cut along Natasha’s cheek. Sam’s with Steve in Wakanda, and Clint is laying low with Pietro, but Bucky bets that they didn’t escape the confrontation unscathed either.

“How—how did it happen? It takes…it’s _Steve_. Takes a lot to bring him down.”

Wanda’s expression turns grim.

“They dropped a helicopter on him.”

An alarming creak rends the air. Bucky pries his fingers away, one by one, from the dented metal of his armrest. Wanda spares it a glance but doesn’t comment.

“Damage?” Bucky grits out.

These are questions he should have asked Natasha earlier, but he was too stunned to do anything but stumble after her. Wanda doesn’t flinch away from the details, and though her eyes are pained, her voice is steady when she answers him.

“Concussion. Broken bones. Torn muscles. One of the blades got him in the throat.”

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“The serum fixed a lot of it by the time we got him to Wakanda. It prioritized, I think. Healing critical injuries, inducing something like a coma. He was fine. He will be fine. It’s just…not safe anymore.”

Bucky forces his muscle groups to unclench, breathing deeply through his nose.

“Was it ever,” he says flatly.

“No,” she answers, soft and grave. “I don’t think the world was ever very kind. But it’s getting worse. Isn’t it?”

He gets the sense that she doesn’t really need his agreement. He nods anyway, and maybe, if they were closer, he’d wrap an arm around her hunched shoulders or take her hand in his own. He still wants to, but that’s because he knows it’s what Steve would have done. He’s fond of this kid, and there’s a part of Bucky that likes her simply because Steve does, even though Bucky left the Avengers right after she joined. Their only meaningful interactions were during the disaster in Sokovia, and she was his enemy for a good three-quarters of that.

Wanda gives him a close-lipped, lopsided smile that’s a little too knowing for comfort.

“Am I still loud?”

“A little,” she says. “Is it scary?”

Bucky snorts.

“Nah. There’s some shit in there though. Don’t go digging.”

“That would be rude,” she says, quietly indignant though she’s smiling.

“Kids these days are pretty damn rude.”

“You’re not exactly a fossil, James.”

“Bucky, please.”

“Bucky,” she concedes, a pleased tilt to her mouth. “I’ll rephrase then. Does it bother you?”

Bucky shrugs.

“A little. No one wants anyone digging around their heads. But in this line of work—shit happens. At least I know you’re on my side.”

She beams at that, and it’s the brightest expression he’s seen on her face. It makes her look even younger, stripped of the gravity etched into the curve of her brows and the shadows in her eyes.

Bucky can’t help smiling.

“I mean it though,” he says, still grinning. “No digging.”

 _If you ever want to look Steve in the eye again_ , he almost adds before he remembers that Wanda doesn’t know, but it’s too late because his mind takes that thought and runs with it.

Wanda’s eyes widen and her face turns beat red.

“Oh!”

“Aw fuck,” Bucky says.

“We’re almost there,” injects a third voice.

Natasha’s staring at them from the cockpit door. She nods once when Bucky meets her gaze and turns on her heels. He follows her and tries to think loudly enough to thank Wanda for the distraction without saying the words out loud.

Even with worry for Steve churning in his gut and bubbling up his throat, Bucky can’t help but stare in stunned appreciation as Wakanda comes into view.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Natasha says from beside him.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Is it—is it okay, us being here?”

“Too late for that question, isn’t it?”

Bucky shrugs.

“Had other things on my mind. Still do.”

“I know. It’s fine. T’Challa…hasn’t quite opened the borders, but he’s serious about what they’re doing. The outreach programs. Diplomatic meetings. All that aside, he’s an ally to us, to Steve.”

Bucky nods once. His mind takes that as its cue to return to biting worry.

Thin fingers wrap around his wrist, the pressure featherlight on the metal.

“He’ll be fine,” she says, not looking at him. “Will be better when he sees you.”

“What’s that mean?” Bucky asks, an instinctive question that he regrets the moment it leaves his mouth.

“I’m not an idiot, Bucky. He’s in love with you. I don’t know what you’re doing with him, not anymore, but you jumped in the car with me, missions and safety be damned. I can imagine.”

Bucky’s stunned silent, gaping blankly at the approaching Wakandan landscape.

“Did you—did you always know?”

“I knew _something_ happened. After Sharon, I had my doubts. I was only really sure after you left. Steve wasn’t very—well, he was disturbed for a long time.”

“Oh. Not before that?”

She squeezes his wrist and lets go.

“I only pretend to know everything, Barnes.”

-

Steve is asleep, half-covered in a blanket, surrounded by blinding white.

There are no medical personnel in the room, but Sam’s there, staring out a window. He turns around when the door opens. Bucky was right in thinking he didn’t survive Ross’s men without harm—there are stitches along his left eyebrow and a healing bruise on his jaw. He looks exhausted.

“Wanda,” he greets, mouth curling into a faint smile. “Barnes. Where’s Nat?”

“Talking to the king,” Wanda says.

Sam nods and motions them inside. The door slides shut behind him, only to open again when Sam approaches it.

“You’re leaving?” Bucky asks numbly.

“I need a shower. Maybe food. He’s—he’s stable now.”

Wanda says something in her mother tongue, relief palpable in her voice. Bucky wishes he could feel it. The knot in his chest loosens a little, but he still feels like he’s one missed breath away from suffocation.

Sam leaves.

Wanda doesn’t waste time sliding into the chair beside Steve’s bed. Bucky watches her, blankly eyeing her hands wrap around a broad, calloused one. He can’t ignore Steve after that.

He looks smaller than he is, laid out like this. Bucky imagines no one looks their best in a fucking hospital, no matter how fancy. It’s just that this is Steve. Bucky has always known, in the distant way of cold fact, that Steve is not immortal or even invincible. But it’s not a truth he’s ever had to confront.

It knocks the breath out of him.

He chokes back a sound he can’t name, and Wanda shoots him a startled glance that melts into soft understanding.

“Would you like to be alone with him?”

Bucky shakes his head and flees the room.

-

Bucky haunts the hallway like a particularly graceless ghost.

He thinks, once or twice, about venturing farther, if only to avoid Wanda when she inevitably comes out of Steve’s room. He could try and find Nat, or maybe Sam, not that he particularly wants to see either of them or has any clue how to answer any questions that might be asked. And anyway, it’s a bad fucking idea to wander alone, especially unarmed, in unfamiliar territory, not that he’s truly weaponless for as long as his left arm’s attached. There’s a pun in there somewhere, but he can’t be fucked to find it.

Wanda comes out a while later, eyes a little red-rimmed. She smiles at Bucky, a little watery but with no judgement for how Bucky just ran away.

“Is he—”

“Not awake, no,” she says before he can finish his question. “You should go inside. He shouldn’t wake up alone.”

Bucky almost asks where she’s going, but he knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Steve looks the same as he did earlier, which—yeah, no fucking shit, Barnes. It’s been all of twenty minutes.

As if in response to Bucky’s thoughts, Steve stirs, the contrary bastard. Bucky freezes, but Steve doesn’t do more than shift into a position that’s only minutely different than the one before.

Bucky takes tentative steps towards the bed. He ignores the chair in favor of perching gingerly on the side of the bed.

“I’m being very dramatic today, you know,” he tells Steve. “You drive all sense out of me, every damn time.”

“That’s cute,” says an unfamiliar voice with a slightly familiar accent. “You must be James Barnes.”

It’s a kid at the door, though her white lab coat and the clipboard on her hand make it clear that she’s not just some kid. Bucky falters, torn between being fairly sure that someone that young can’t be a doctor and thinking pragmatically of the number of overachieving geniuses he’s met in his life.

“Hi?” is what he settles on at the end.

“Hello,” she greets, grinning brightly at him. “I’m Shuri. Natasha left your captain in my care. Well, my doctors’ care, but his unique physiology is more my forte.”

Bucky blinks, something about that name nagging at him.

It clicks into place just as Shuri is running what looks like a slightly glowing wand along the length of Steve’s body.

“You’re the princess of Wakanda. T’Challa’s sister.”

“Men’s obsession with defining women in regards to other men remains consistent across cultures, I see,” she says pleasantly.

“Sorry? Fuck, sorry! Shit, should I swear—oh god—darn it.”

Shuri, to her credit, doesn’t so much as blink at that verbal trainwreck. She finishes…whatever she was doing with Steve. The glowing wand folds in on itself until it’s black and round. She pockets it nonchalantly and turns to Bucky. Her smile’s not as wide, but the amusement in it hasn’t lessened any.

“He’s fine,” she says. “He should wake soon.”

“Has he, yet?”

“Once, at the beginning. Not fully—he wasn’t coherent and didn’t understand what was happening. We had to restrain him.”

“Jesus.”

She tilts her head at him, giving him an evaluative once-over that leaves Bucky a little puzzled.

“He’s fine,” she repeats, a little more softly than before, which pisses Bucky off a little.

He reins it in, but his voice is curt when he says, “People keep telling me that.”

“Then perhaps you should believe them.”

Bucky lets out a deep, shuddering breath.

“Can I—can I ask how he’s healing?”

She blinks at him, then nods.

“Steve’s body is—unique, as I said. That serum of his will go to great lengths to keep him alive. But it was a lot of damage, still. Broken bones, internal bleeding... Most of it has been fixed, but it’s a lot of strain on the body, even with the serum and Wakandan medical tech. The sleep is a good sign. It means he’s healing.”

“When will he wake up?”

“Soon.”

“Is there anything I should do when he—if he—uh…”

“Give him water,” she says, turning away from Bucky and back to Steve. “We’ve done all we can. What he needs now is rest.”

She leaves a little while after that, after sorting through some things on the holograms that pop out of the desk beside the bed. And just like that, Bucky is alone with Steve again.

He just met a literal princess, and he doesn’t even have the emotional energy to be awed about it because Steve’s a pale form on a hospital bed, all the white making him seem even more ghostly.

“See what you do to me?” Bucky asks, sharp but without any bite. “Fucking hell, Steve.”

Steve looks peaceful like this, eyes closed and expression slack. Bucky cups his cheek in one hand, thumb stroking along a cheekbone that’s more prominent than it was the last time he saw Steve.

“Wake up, sweetheart.”

Steve doesn’t, of course. He sleeps on, breathing slow and even.

-

The fingers move first, twitching in Bucky’s grasp.

Bucky, slumped in the chair and listlessly watching Steve’s face, jolts to life.

“Steve? Steve!”

Steve’s eyelids start to flutter, and Bucky lets himself just sit there like a damned fool for a solid minute before he leaps out of his chair. He stands there, trembling in place as Steve’s eyes finally open.

And he sees it, the moment of awareness.

Steve closes his eyes and his entire body goes lax. Bucky would think he passed out again, but he can spot the difference between Steve being genuinely unconscious and this. It’s smart, calculated, and that’s a goddamn relief because if Steve can think and plan for possible enemies three seconds out of dreamland, he’ll be just fucking fine.

“Steve,” he calls, gentling his voice despite the desperation he can still feel. “Steve, it’s Bucky. We’re in Wakanda, you’re safe. Open your eyes, please.”

Steve’s mouth tightens. He swallows.

“Please, Steve.”

Steve opens his eyes. He’s frowning as he looks around with sharp, flickering eyes. They soften when they land on Bucky and that, absurdly, makes him want to cry.

“Buck,” Steve says, more breath than word. “Bucky.”

His voice is a wreck, thin and scratchy. Bucky has to pry his eyes off Steve’s face in order to grab the water and he still almost knocks something down. He manages to trickle a stream of it into Steve’s mouth without spilling any or accidentally pouring it into his nose. Steve swallows eagerly and doesn’t seem sated until half a bottle is gone. It’s a slow process, and they’re both silent throughout. But their eyes meet, brief glances stolen between Bucky’s careful ministrations and Steve’s equally intense focus on his mouthfuls.

And then it’s over, and the silence turns heavy.

Steve, ever the brave hero, is the one to break it.

“You’re here.”

Bucky swallows, tempted to down the other half of the bottle to soothe his suddenly dry throat, even though he knows that won’t help.

“I’m here,” he echoes. “Nat got me.”

Steve sighs, and it doesn’t seem to matter that Captain America is a fugitive now, Steve can still pull of his Authoritative Sigh of Disappointment very well. Despite everything, it makes Bucky smile.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t want to see me?”

“’Course I did,” Steve says, giving Bucky a look that says he’s a damn fool. “I always want to see you. But not like this.”

“Yeah, hospital white isn’t really your color.”

“ _Buck_. I mean it’s not safe.”

“We’re in Wakanda. Place with an invisible force field around its borders. I’d say it’s as safe as it gets, especially for you. Ross will be hunting, now that he knows you’re injured.”

Steve grimaces. He looks down at his own body. Bucky bites his lips when Steve tenses various muscle groups and moves this way and that, groaning now and then, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s done the same when he woke up in hospitals in the past and anyway, Shuri and her people have fixed him up pretty damn well. There are no stitches to tear, no casts to baby. Steve just needs to rest, though that’s easier said than done.

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” Bucky says, drawing Steve’s eyes back towards him.

They soften, a warm, all-encompassing blue, and Bucky leans in like a man enchanted, cupping Steve’s pallid cheek with one hand. His heart flips in his chest when Steve turns his face into the touch, his forehead releasing some of the tension.

“Not as bad as I expected,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

“I’m not the one who healed you, Steve. All credits to Wakanda’s princess.”

“Shuri,” Steve murmurs, eyes closing. “Good kid. For being here.”

It takes Bucky a second to untangle what that last sentence means, and by then, Steve’s asleep again, deeply as if he never woke and drank water and talked like his usual stubborn self.

Bucky bends down and doesn’t think about anything except the softness of Steve’s mouth as he kisses him.

It’s when he pulls back that he remembers a similar scene. It’s only been a few years, but it feels like half a lifetime ago that Steve kissed him goodbye in a hospital in Manhattan. It didn’t take, of course. None of their goodbyes did. Bucky’s not complaining, not anymore.

He strokes Steve’s cheek once more and reluctantly pries himself away from Steve’s bedside to go and find the others.

-

Three days later, they’re back on the Quinjet—Steve’s fugitive Avengers and Bucky.

Steve’s been able to walk without pain for maybe half a day at this point, and everyone from Natasha to T’Challa tried to get him to stay put and fucking rest for at least a week, but Steve countered with some bullshit about safety and preserving Wakanda’s standing in front of the UN and wriggled out of it. It’s not that he doesn’t have some good points; it will be a diplomatic disaster if Ross or the others finds out that T’Challa is sheltering Steve and his team. But it’s unlikely that four extra days of rest will jeopardize anything, not that Steve seems very receptive to that strand of logic.

Asshole.

Safety isn’t the issue. Between Bucky, Clint, and Natasha, they have a few safe houses in countries that didn’t sign the Accords. It’s the obvious effort it takes for Steve to be up and about that worries him. Steve can walk off a lot, and it says a lot that he can’t fully hide the strain on his body.

“Stubborn bastard, isn’t he?” Natasha says, joining Bucky in watching Steve sleep.

His face is twisted into a frown and he’s sweating profusely. The bunks on the Quinjet aren’t the most comfortable and more discomfort is the last thing Steve needs.

“I don’t why I’m even surprised,” Bucky replies after a long pause. “I shouldn’t be, not anymore.”

She hums, amused and annoyed. Always a woman of multitudes, Nat.

“At least he agreed to lay low,” she says. “You tell him you’re on nurse duty?”

“Nope,” Bucky says cheerfully. He smiles at her. “It’s fine. Ain’t a hardship, you know?”

“I figured. Don’t fuck it up again.”

Bucky freezes for a nanosecond and doesn’t even hope that it escaped her notice.

“Why are you so sure I’ll be the one who’d fuck it up?”

“I’m not,” she says simply. “I’ll tell him the same when he’s better. Bad form to kick a man when he’s down.”

“Nat, I’ve seen you electrocute a guy’s balls while he was down.”

Her smile turns wicked at the memory.

“I’m very discerning that way. Oh, he’s waking up.”

Sure enough, Steve’s stirring, his frown getting more pronounced by the moment. Natasha slaps Bucky on the back and turns on her heels.

“Where are you going?”

“Cockpit. You go kiss him better.”

Bucky swears after her, but when faced with Steve’s pretty blue eyes, he does just that.

-

“By the way, I think they all know now,” Bucky says, somewhat belatedly once it’s just Steve and him in a place that looks a moderately fancy hilltop retreat and has more weapons stashed in its humble confines than Bucky can count using both his and Steve’s fingers and toes.

Steve’s only response is an acknowledging hum from where he’s sprawled on the sole bed in the place. He doesn’t even bother opening his eyes, though Bucky doesn’t really begrudge him the rest.

“You don’t mind?” he asks.

Steve slits an eye open.

“Why would I? It wasn’t a secret I tried very hard to keep.”

“You succeeded well enough. Nat knew though.”

Steve huffs a gentle laugh.

“Of course.”

Bucky frowns, taking in Steve’s faint smile and the distance in his eyes.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

There’s a moment where Steve’s expression closes off, and Bucky thinks that he’ll get brushed off. He braces for it, unsure whether to press or let it go when he doesn’t even know what’s bothering Steve.

But then Steve sighs and pats the side of the bed, an invitation that Bucky accepts readily, if warily.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says.

“I—what for?”

“You didn’t want to get dragged into this. And I really didn’t mean—I swore I wouldn’t do a damn thing you don’t want, but here we are. I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky stares at Steve for a long moment, waiting silently for more words, anything that’ll help make sense of what Steve just said. It’s clear, soon enough, that nothing is forthcoming.

Bucky drags in a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

“Did you just apologize for almost dying?”

“No.” Steve smiles without humor. “I’m not that great a martyr. No, Buck, just—I didn’t think Nat would come and get you. I’d have stopped her if I’d known.”

“I thought you _wanted_ to see me.” And he sounds hurt, he _is_ hurt, for all he tries to hide it.

“Of course I wanted to see you! No, just—you didn’t want anything to do with the team and what I do. And now you got involved.”

Ah. He deflates quietly.

“Nat didn’t kidnap me, Steve. And yeah, I wasn’t very keen on avenging it out secretly with you and the rest, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. Just figured it’d be easier if we weren’t in a team again.”

Steve’s expression sets in a way that makes it very clear what he thinks about that. Surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything, and maybe that’s a blessing, but Bucky finds that he can’t let it go.

They’ve both kept silent before, shutting their mouths and letting their bodies do the talking. It took them over half a decade to sit down and talk like adult humans, and if the improvement born out of that is significant, it’s only because the bar was somewhere in the earth’s core. And maybe Bucky would have told himself it’s fine to do it just this once, that they’ve got time, except that the man prone on bed beside him recently had a fucking helicopter dropped on him and that’s one hell of a reality check; _memento mori_.

“You told me you loved me,” Bucky says, and that’s not what he meant to say, but then, he’s not really thinking. “And then you left and almost got yourself fucking killed.”

Steve’s expression shifts from stricken to contrite in a matter of seconds.

“I didn’t mean to stay away that long,” he says, reaching out to wrap his fingers around one of Bucky’s hands. “Swear to god, Buck. It was hectic few weeks, even before Ross caught our scent. I was going to find you after that last mission.”

Bucky thinks of all those weeks of waiting, trying to ignore the unease creeping at the back of his mind. Did he know somehow? Was some age old instinct trying to warn him?

“Did you mean it?” is what he asks.

Steve swallows. Bucky can hear the dry click of his throat. His own heart’s pounding in his chest, terrified and more.

“I did,” Steve says, so quiet than Bucky almost doesn’t hear. Then, Steve raises his chin and grips Bucky’s hand so hard that he fancies he can hear the metal creak. “I do. It wasn’t—I didn’t mean to say it. Not then, not like that, when I had to leave. I didn’t even realize…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“You said it back,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t tell whether he sounds delighted or defiant.

And anyway, he didn’t, not really. _You too_ , he said. The sentiment is clear enough, but Steve deserves more than a watery ditto, and Bucky—Bucky wants to give it to him.

“I love you.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Steve makes a noise somewhere in his throat, a fluttering, half-realized thing.

“Buck—”

“I’ve been stupid in love with you since before I even realized it enough to try and change it. I didn’t—that’s why I left, after Ultron. And that’s why I stayed too, after France. And that’s why I was shit scared of coming back to your team because Steve, I can’t—I can’t fuck this up again, I _can’t_.”

His voice breaks and his eyes are hot, but Bucky doesn’t register the tears until Steve cups his face and slides his thumbs over their wet warmth.

“Hey, _hey_ , Buck, it’s alright, we’re alright. Look at us, sweetheart. What happened then won’t happen again.”

Bucky shakes his head, the movement constrained by the large palms cradling his face.

“No, that’s not—I will, I always do.”

Steve holds him more firmly, and Bucky can detect the faint tremble in them. Steve’s expression is a pained thing, his eyes running over Bucky’s face like he’s trying to worm into his head and see what’s there.

“You keep saying that,” Steve tells him very gently. “Like it’s set in stone. Buck, I don’t—I don’t understand.”

Bucky bites back a sound that might be curse, might be a plea dressed in Steve’s name. He closes his eyes and makes a conscious attempt to regulate his breathing, not even sure when it got out of hand. When he let the love spill out in words, maybe. It’s been such a long time. He can’t remember the last time he confessed to being in love, but he’s sure he was a kid, high on infatuation.

He’s more or less calm when he opens his eyes. Steve’s still holding his face, palms warm and sure. It’s easy to slump against them and let their grounding touch tether him to this moment.

Steve’s thumb strokes along his cheek, and Bucky makes a pleased, grateful sound.

He gently pries Steve’s hands away from his face but follows the motion with a graceless fall towards the bed, slotting his body along Steve’s, hiding in his bulk. Steve starts to shift, turning on his side.

“Wait, don’t hurt yourself—”

“Ssh.”

Bucky’s pulled more firmly against Steve, allowed to hide in his bare chest. It’s a small, personal miracle, the feeling of safety that envelopes him at the touch.

“You make me feel so small,” he tells Steve, the words half muffled but coherent.

“Yeah?”

Fingers card through his hair, tips digging pleasantly into the scalp.

“Mm. Feels safe.”

Steve’s chest doesn’t quite puff up in pride, but the action wouldn’t be out of place with the satisfied sound he makes.

“I haven’t not fucked up a single relationship, you know that?”

Of course Steve doesn’t know that. Bucky never told him, and he’s pretty sure that none of his fucking files has his teenage fuck-ups on record. They actually might have something on the people he dated after he joined S.H.I.E.L.D because some intelligence agencies are invasive that way.

Steve is still and quiet, and he doesn’t say anything for a long time, but Bucky waits, mostly because he doesn’t quite know how to follow that up.

In the end though, Steve speaks before Bucky can gather his nerves.

“Did—did someone hurt you?”

Bucky snorts into Steve’s skin, which is fairly rude, but he can’t help it. It’s a logical question, a little too predictable.

“No. I didn’t have an abusive ex or anything like that, if that’s what you’re wondering. Sure, I had shitty exes but just as often, I was the shitty ex. You should know.”

Steve sighs, a long, full-bodied thing.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I do.”

“It’s just—I don’t know, Steve. I was a selfish dick half the time. The other half, I just didn’t give a fuck. There were people, and it wasn’t always just sex, but I didn’t care about them. I couldn’t—hell, I couldn’t even want to. And after a point—after a point, I could barely stand myself so why the fuck did I expect other people to give a shit about me? I tried to find people who wouldn’t care either. I hated it when they did. I hated it when _you_ did.”

Steve’s silent for a while. His heart beats calm and steady while Bucky’s is in his throat, pounding wetly. He tries to match his breathing to Steve’s, tries to make his heart beat in time with his, the way it’s been doing the last few years whether Bucky wanted it or not.

And then Steve speaks, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

“Did you?”

Bucky shudders, pressing closer to Steve like he’s trying to hide in him. He has to pull back a little when he speaks, just enough that he’ll be heard.

“I tried to. I tried pretty damn hard.”

“Sweetheart.”

Bucky makes a gutted noise and squirms up, tucking his face into Steve’s neck this time. He kisses the hollow spot there, lips puckering against Steve’s pulse.

“I tried the other way too, tried to stay. That morning.”

He doesn’t specify which morning. It’s a vivid memory for him—Steve’s bed, the warmth of the body next to him, and the single moment it took for soft affection to turn brittle and cold. And he doesn’t need to ask if it’s the same for Steve. He’s got a fucking eidetic memory for one thing, but it’s mostly that Bucky still aches from the memory of Steve draped in soft morning light. A man who looked at him like that wouldn’t forget what happened if it took ten lifetimes.

“I tried,” he repeats faintly when Steve stays silent.

“I believe you,” Steve says, equally softly. “Why didn’t you?”

“What could I have given you, Steve? Sniper fire and a tight hole to bury your pain in?”

Steve makes an angry noise, but his body stays gentle against Bucky, holding him like he’s something special.

“You were more than that. Even when we were at our worst, Bucky.”

“I figured you saw me that way. But I didn’t. I didn’t even like myself, Steve. All I could see was that I’d ruin you. And I would have, I _did_ , don’t lie.”

Steve swallows. Bucky can feel the movement on his mouth. He parts his lips, drinking it in, puckering them against the delicate skin in a whisper-sweet kiss.

“Not like I was any better to you.”

“You tried. Didn’t let you.”

“Buck, I spent my entire life not letting other people dictate what I should do, how I should act. I was bad with you, to you, and it’s because I chose to be. Maybe I told myself I didn’t have another option, but that was a lie. There’s always a choice.”

Bucky opens his mouth with an instinctive denial but snaps it shut when he realizes that he doesn’t know what to say to that. He traces meaningless patterns on Steve’s back, losing himself a little to the simple proximity of their tired bodies.

After a while, he finds that his face is wet. When he talks, the hoarseness of his voice surprises him.

“It’s a miracle, isn’t it, that we’re still here like this?”

Steve huffs a tiny laugh.

“You could call it that. That’s a choice we made too, isn’t it?”

“That’s a sudden turn to optimism.”

“Think we’ve earned it, pal. The way I—the way you make me feel, I felt that in my life just once before. I think she felt it too, but I crashed a plane into ice before I could see where that feeling would take the two of us. I’m not making a mistake again.”

“Tall words for a man who had a helicopter fall on him,” Bucky says, not a word of it a joke. “You mean that?”

“You know I do.”

“Okay.” He breathes deep, lets it go. “Yeah, okay.”

Steve tugs lightly at his hair, a gentle request for Bucky to tilt his head back. He resists for a second, then gives in, blinking white spots away from his vision from how tightly his eyes were shut.

There’s a terrible hope on Steve’s face and so much of unabashed adoration.

“You with me, Bucky?”

“I’m still scared of fucking it up.”

“You’re not the only one.”

Bucky leans up for a kiss. Steve’s mouth is soft, the kiss chaste. They linger, breathing quietly together for a long moment.

“But I’m here,” Bucky says against Steve’s lips. “And I’m with you till the end of the line.”

-

Bucky wakes to a shifting bed and the conspicuous absence of a warm body beside him.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

He doesn’t need to look to know that Steve freezes at his voice, but he does anyway, slitting his eyes open with a displeased hiss. A vaguely-but-not-really apologetic expression greets him from a face crafted by the gods.

“Breakfast?” Steve says, uncharacteristically meek.

“You’re supposed to rest, Steve.”

“C’mon, using the waffle iron won’t kill me.”

“No, but your cooking might kill _me_. Lie the fuck down.”

Steve actually listens, which Bucky chalks up as a minor miracle. Maybe he’s still floating on the emotional high of last night’s conversation. Bucky sure is. They made out, lazy and with little intent, for what feels like hours. Bucky lips still feel tender and swollen, and Steve’s suspiciously bright-eyed.

Bucky leers at him, drinking in all that bared skin.

“How can I possibly keep you in bed?”

Steve gets in on the program pretty quickly, but he’s also a little shit so he says, all innocent-like, “I think sex isn’t that conducive to me resting, Buck.”

“Asshole,” Bucky says fondly. “Fine then. Lie back and let me do the work.”

Steve settles down, folding his arms under his head and raising an expectant eyebrow like he’s doing a fucking favor for Bucky. The light in his eyes and the curve of his mouth have a mischievous tinge. It’s a good looj on him, erasing the stress lines of two years spent on the run.

Bucky sheds the covers and his boxers. He even pauses to take a good gulp out of the water bottle beside the bed to make his morning mouth a bit more bearable. Steve looks both amused and endeared at his antics.

“Come here,” he says, and Bucky leans in happily for a thorough good morning kiss.

“How’s your bones?” he asks, pulling back.

“All attached. Now, I believe I was promised something.”

“You need a whack up the head.”

“Aww,” Steve croons, laughing into Bucky’s mouth. “Don’t be like that, baby.”

“Fuck you!”

Bucky’s still laughing when he does as promised and crawls between Steve’s legs, spreading his thighs very gently to make space for himself. Steve indulges him with a bright grin and doesn’t even say a word when Bucky gets a little distracted feeling up the firm muscle of Steve’s thighs. They’re a crime to decency, having the nerve to exist and be so fucking _thick_.

And Steve’s dick is no better, a constant threat to Bucky getting anything done when they’re together. He should get an award for working with Steve in all those missions without being distracted and shooting himself in the foot.

Bucky licks his lips and looks up at Steve’s harsh inhale.

“Can I?” he asks, knowing that’ll rile Steve up some.

It backfires because it riles Bucky up too, gut twisting in on itself as he watches Steve’s eyes darken.

“You may,” Steve says. “Put that pretty mouth to good use, Buck.”

Jesus H. _Christ_.

Steve’s not all the way hard, but he’s one hell of a tight fit even then. Spark dance down Bucky’s spine at the smooth slide of it over his tongue. He buries his nose in the thatch of hair at the base. It’s untrimmed and a little overgrown, not as neat as Steve usually keeps it. Bucky drags in deep, desperate breaths, blood burning hot at the heady scent.

He can hear Steve breathe, loud and ragged.

He hardens in Bucky’s mouth, blood pulsing along the length of him. Bucky swallows around the growing thickness, his own cock starting to throb in earnest. He curls his hands tighter around Steve’s hips, half to just cling and half to keep himself from reaching down to take himself in hand. He could, but Steve told him to put his mouth to good use, didn’t say anything about Bucky touching himself, and he—he wants to be good, wants to be used.

He stays like that, nose buried in Steve’s groin, throat tight around his cock, until his burning lungs force him to pull away. Steve makes a noise at that, not quite protest. His hips twitch up, but Bucky instinctively tightens his grip.

“Don’t think so,” he says, voice already wrecked. “Rest.”

“I can fuck your mouth without breaking, I promise,” Steve says darkly.

Bucky laughs and, when that makes Steve’s expression turn intent in a way that’s not very reassuring, kisses the tip of Steve’s cock, swirling his tongue around the head in a move that’s both distraction and mollification.

“I know you can, sir,” he says, peering up at Steve from under his lashes, knowing precisely what he’s doing. “But let me. Said I’d do the work, didn’t I?”

Steve’s cheeks are flushed pink, the blue of his eyes swallowed in the bright expanse of his pupils. He lets out a breath that shudders through his whole body, muscles clenching, thighs closing tighter around Bucky.

“Get to it then,” Steve says, and it’s an order but there’s a sweetness to it that worms inside Bucky’s ribcage.

Bucky listens, wrapping his lips around the head and sucking hard. He takes his time, not to tease but to savor. Steve leaks precome against his tongue, the sharp taste of him spearing right through Bucky’s gut. His own dick aches in needy sympathy, and Bucky can’t even grind against the bed, crouched over Steve like this. That works him up even more, being forced to ignore his own arousal in favor of Steve’s, knowing that he’s choosing to do this. A sound slips out, his moan vibrating around Steve’s cock. Steve gasps at that, a breathy facsimile of Bucky’s name.

Bucky sucks harder, takes Steve deeper, caressing the underside with his tongue. He traces the thick veins protruding against the silky-hot skin, drawing clumsy patterns that make Steve heave for breath. He has to withdraw, breathing deep to prepare for more. He sneaks a glance at Steve’s face and stills for a second when he finds himself pinned by Steve’s lust-drunk eyes. Bucky doesn’t look away as he opens his mouth to take Steve back inside, an electric thrill going through him as Steve’s expression twists into something exquisitely agonized.

He does close his eyes when the head hits the back of his throat. He chokes, just a little, the sound swallowed by Steve’s answering moan. Bucky breathes through his nose, the rhythm of it shaky and desperate, and wills his gag reflex to fuck off. It’s easier when Steve’s holding him place and fucking his mouth, acting like he doesn’t give two shits if Bucky chokes to death on his cock.

The memory alone wreaks holy hell on his cock, gets it leaking like a broken faucet.

He pushes himself to take more, whining when his throat constricts around Steve’s cock. He stays like that for a few seconds, the whole of him pulsing with heat, but then he has to pull off, gulping in air. His throat feels raw, aching when he swallows.

Above him, Steve’s wide-eyed and red down to his chest, desire turning him into a sight that burns.

“Down,” he orders, voice a wrecked rasp that’s no less commanding for it.

Bucky drops like a puppet with its strings cut, swallowing Steve down, frantic and on the wrong edge of rough. He chokes, pulling off sputtering, but he doesn’t wait for Steve to speak this time, diving down with renewed frenzy.

He fucks his throat on Steve’s cock, uncontrolled and bordering on violent. It hurts a little, throat dry and burning like he’s been screaming for hours. Tears wet his cheeks and fall on Steve too, and Bucky knows Steve likes it, the tears and the blotchy red of his face. His cock pulses in Bucky’s mouth, dripping and rock-hard, and it won’t be long, Bucky knows.

He makes a mess of himself, drooling and choking and crying, breaking himself open on Steve without Steve twitching a single muscle.

And his reward is the flood of heat that spills on his tongue and slides down his throat and drips over his chin. Bucky swallows what he can and lets the rest mark his skin. He keeps sucking until Steve’s soft and his ragged exhalations have a whining edge to them. Then he lets Steve’s cock slip out of his mouth, straightening up with a final kiss to the tip.

Steve’s got a hand fisted in his hair and his throat is arched, sweat gleaming along the graceful length of it. Bucky stares, mesmerized even after all this time, and he thinks that will never change, the way Steve stuns him with his sheer beauty.

With one last shudder, Steve slumps back down. His eyes flutter open, their darkened blue hazy even when they land on Bucky.

“God,” Steve breathes. “That mouth of yours, kid.”

Well, that’s new. Bucky likes it and isn’t even surprised anymore, mind and body all lighting up. He leans forward a little, a flower to the sun, and licks his lip, letting the back of his tongue flatten briefly against the come smeared on his chin.

Steve’s eyes narrow in on the gesture and linger on Bucky’s mouth for a long time before they slowly crawl up.

“Come here,” he says, and Bucky almost breaks his dick scrambling up the bed.

The kiss they crash into is clumsy and uncoordinated. Bucky wants to be everywhere, on Steve’s cheeks, in his mouth, in his _skin_ , and it takes Steve’s fingers winding into his still-short hair and pulling tight for him to calm down a little. He opens his mouth and whines, a desperate need that Steve slakes with teeth and tongue, kissing Bucky good and hard until his lips are aching in that raw, swollen way.

“You hard, honey?”

Bucky whimpers into Steve’s jaw, biting half-heartedly at it. Steve’s fingers tighten painfully in his hair, and Bucky’s slutty fucking cock jumps at the sharp pain.

“Asked you a question, Buck.”

“Yes, _yes_ , I’m hard, do something, please.”

“Aw.” Steve massages Bucky’s scalp, soothing the hurt. “Nah, I’m not gonna do a damn thing. You wanted to do the work. So put on a show.”

“What?”

Steve pushes him away, rough and a little mean, grinning up at Bucky like an asshole. He pats his stomach, and Bucky climbs over him, straddling Steve while taking care not to put any weight on him. That earns him an eyeroll, but at least Steve doesn’t insist he’s fine and dandy.

“Well?” Bucky asks breathlessly. “What now?”

“Do I need to teach you how to jerk off, Buck?”

Bucky’s traitorous face flushes hot. Steve’s eyebrows do a steady climb to his hairline.

“You’d like that, huh?”

“N-no.”

Steve’s grin turns sharp at the edges.

“Start slow, sweetheart,” he croons. “Get your hand around that pretty little thing, there you go.”

Bucky obeys in a daze, face growing hotter by the second, gut clenching around the roiling heat Steve’s words birth inside him.

“That feel good, honey?” Steve asks, sweet and condescending.

Bucky nods jerkily.

“Ain’t that a sight. You’re leaking already, Buck. Come on, move your hand a bit, I want to see.”

And Bucky does, rubbing his thumb along the flushed head, hissing through his teeth at the sparking pleasure. His cock’s been aching for a touch ever since he put his mouth on Steve and even these light touches feel like heaven. Steve makes it better—and worse—with his guiding comments, nudging Bucky this way and that with nothing but words and that filthy curve to his mouth.

“Why don’t you play with your tits,” he says suddenly, dragging his demanding gaze away from Bucky’s cock and over to his chest.

Bucky just sits frozen for a second, not quite registering what Steve said, and then he does, a moan tearing free.

His metal palm is cool on his overheated skin. His nipples are already pebbled, but they draw up even tighter at the cool touch. It’s a curious ache and when he brushes his fingers over the tip, he can’t help whimpering.

“Harder than that,” Steve orders, expression hungry, borderline predatory. “Cry for me, Buck.”

“ _Christ_ , Steve.”

Steve meets his eyes for a second. The look in them gentles, the dark desire taking a backseat to open affection. It’s only a momentary glimpse, but it makes Bucky’s heart seize up, painful and pleasant.

He twists a nipple between unforgiving metal and throws his head back with a shout.

Under him, Steve swears, voice gone deep and hoarse like he’s the one getting fucked by nothing but words and looks.

“Please,” Bucky gasps, begging for mercy like it’s not his own hand tugging his nipple into red-hot soreness.

“The other one,” is the only concession Steve provides.

It’s the same torment all over again—the faint sting at the chill of metal, bruising pressure, and the throbbing soreness that remains. Bucky presses his palm flat to one pec, trying in vain to soothe the ache. His flesh hand is moving clumsily over his dick, smearing precome around the length and trying to propel himself into that looming edge, the one he just can’t reach.

“Please,” he says again, and this time he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for.

Steve does.

One hand knocks Bucky’s away, forceful enough to sting. Long fingers wrap around it, the grip loose but somehow proprietary.

“Cup them,” Steve says with a slight jerk of his head to Bucky’s chest. “Gimme something to look at.”

Bucky’s whole body flares hot, face flaming and probably a bright, inelegant red. Judging by Steve’s grin, he appreciates the view.

“Go on,” he says, voice soft, the tone anything but.

Bucky raises his right arm to his chest and frames his chest between both hands, pressing them together tentatively. It doesn’t do much for him, sensation-wise, but the way Steve is _leering_ at him—god, that goes to his cock, to his fucking brain, everything melting into screaming want.

“Steve,” he whimpers, blinking away tears, crying just like Steve wanted him to. “Sir, please.”

“I’ve got you,” Steve says, stroking Bucky nice and tight. But then he stops, his fist a tight circle around the head. “Move.”

Understanding trembles down Bucky’s limbs.

It’s awkward, fucking into Steve’s fist when he’s positioned like this. He can’t even brace himself, both hands still clenched around his pecs, keeping them bunched together for Steve’s pleasure.

But he finds that he doesn’t need much; this is enough, Steve’s lazy touch and sharp eyes and the expectation writhing hot in the air.

“I’m—can I—Steve!”

“You can come,” Steve says, offhand like he doesn’t really care whether Bucky comes and is more curious than anything else, and that hurls Bucky over the edge with a scream that scrapes his throat raw.

He spills into Steve’s hand, his belly, fucking his hand through each shuddering pulse of his climax.

He almost collapses on Steve afterwards, but even fucked out as he is, he remembers he’s got to be careful and that gives him the strength to climb off Steve and pitch face-first into the mattress.

A stupidly strong arm scoops him right up, gathering him against Steve’s broad chest. Bucky whines and curls against Steve, fisting a hand in the smattering of hair on his chest.

Steve strokes up and down his spine, and it takes Bucky a few minutes to recover enough to be amused at how they always end up like this, Bucky a wrecked little puddle melted against Steve’s side—except when he didn’t let it happen, when he ran away, but it’s been a long time, and maybe Bucky broke the promises he made himself those days, but he won’t do that to Steve, not again. He doesn’t have it in him to be that cruel. It would kill him, and it would kill him worse to know it’s killing Steve too.

“I love you,” he mumbles, and even now, there’s a moment where Steve stills, body and breath freezing, before he cuddles impossibly closer to Bucky.

“Love you too, Buck.”

Bucky shivers and buries his face in Steve’s throat, inhaling deep.

“Stay,” he says. “Stay in bed. Breakfast later.”

Steve laughs, a soft, tired sound.

“Alright,” he agrees, nosing at Bucky’s hair. “You’re cooking though.”

“At least I won’t poison us.”

Steve swats at his ass, a little love tap. Bucky squirms closer to him, breathing Steve in as he chases sleep.

-

True to form, Steve bounces back with another four days. A _week_ to recover from a crushed ribcage, arterial damage, and a nasty concussion—it’s the kind of thing that drives home, better than even strength that can bend metal, how inhuman Steve is.

But he’s human in all the ways that count. The fire in his eyes burns brighter every day, and his heart never stops bleeding righteous rage. He terrifies Bucky because he loves him and people like them don’t get happy endings and bright sunsets.

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky tells Steve, the night before Sam is set to come pick them up.

Steve, scrolling through something on his phone, goes very still.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Bucky says before he can open his mouth. “But we’ve had this conversation already.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Steve says, sighing a little. “Tell me then, what changed your mind.”

He pins Bucky with calm, piercing eyes. They’re masking something, Bucky knows that. He can guess what too.

“If another helicopter falls on you, I don’t want to hear about it days after the fact. And if—I don’t want to be haunted by the thought that I could walk into a hospital room and see a corpse.”

“You know that’s unlikely—”

“I don’t care!”

The silence that follows has a stunned quality to it. Bucky rubs a hand over his face.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. It’s just—this isn’t an impulsive decision, Steve. Working on my own, meeting up when we could, all that was fine before I got a reality check. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that you’re not immortal.”

Steve holds out a hand, and Bucky pries himself off the bedroom door to go and half-collapse on the edge of the bed, curling his hand around Steve’s.

“Maybe I’m not immortal,” Steve says very gently. “But I’m pretty hard to kill. Can walk off a hell of a lot. You don’t have to do this for my sake, Bucky.”

“Didn’t I just spell out, in very clear terms, that I’m doing this for me? I—I care, Steve, and that scares the everloving shit for me. I’ve been running from it, one way or the other, for too damn long. I want to stop. I’m stopping. Say you don’t want me with you, and I won’t say another word, but that’s not the impression I got from the last few months.”

“I want you with me,” Steve says immediately. “I just don’t want you to regret it. Feels like we’re finally getting the hang of this, of us. Don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“We won’t,” Bucky says, faking confidence and marveling a little at the role reversal. Is this how Steve felt too, terrified and choking on terrible hope? “Alright? We won’t. Besides, we together work like a damn dream.”

A smile cracks across Steve’s face, widening into a grin that’s on the right side of crazy.

“That we do, sweetheart.”

“See?” Bucky leans in and rests his forehead on Steve’s. “Let’s raise a little hell together, Rogers.”

-

And they do.

Once, after a mission that leaves Bucky covered head to toe in soot and grime, he slumps against a slightly charred tree and says, “You know what we’re gonna do, Steve?”

Steve, bent over and panting, raises his own grime-coated face to look expectantly at Bucky.

“We’re going to pull a Clint and get a fucking farm house in buttfuck nowhere and the most strenuous activity we’ll ever do is you fucking me through a bed.”

On the comms, Natasha laughs, loud and startled. Sam starts singing some nonsense song loudly, his preferred tactic whenever Steve or Bucky—mostly Bucky—gets a little too explicit about what they do together. It’s just the four of them on this. Wanda is off doing something with Vision that she, unlike Bucky, doesn’t get very explicit about. Clint’s on one of his quality family retreats and Pietro is with him, more or less a Barton at this point.

Bucky switches off his comm, but Steve doesn’t bother, apparently too busy staring adoringly at Bucky.

“Yeah?” he says, soft, too soft for where they are, what they are. “Sounds real nice, Buck.”

-

That’s the closest they get to talking about retirement, but the thought of it lingers in Bucky’s mind. He can keep doing this for a few more years, but he’s ready to stop once the world is a little less shitty. Steve’s not, he can see that, but he has the feeling that some day soon, he will be.

It wouldn’t be so bad, a quiet life. Bucky got a taste of it during those two years he spent soul-searching. Steve has been chasing wars since they pulled him out of the ice, but Bucky can see the toll it’s taking.

They could build something together—a life that doesn’t have war in it.

The way Steve looks at him sometimes, in the quiet moments that exist even in the most high-risk missions, it feels like he’s doing the same, looking at Bucky and seeing a future that’s not coded red.

They don’t talk about it, not quite yet, but that’s fine, they’ve got time.

-

Until the Mad Titan comes and brings an army, and they run out of time, just like that.

Dying doesn’t hurt, but Steve’s name on his tongue burns him to the bone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream at me <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [collab: voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361448) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




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